by Paula Quinn
She smiled and told him all about the market. She wondered if she was a fool. William was ridiculously handsome, with dark hair and large, luminous, colt-brown eyes that revealed his heart in many matters. He was loyal to her father and steadfast, and had been a good friend to her her entire life. His legs were long and straight, his chest and arms well muscled from banging metal together all day in the smithy. Any one of the gels at Linavar would be happy to take him. But most of them had written him off years ago as being hopelessly in love with Temperance.
But was he?
“Where were ye earlier today, William?” Gram asked him, breaking through Temperance’s thoughts. “My granddaughter was worried about ye.”
“I was not worried, Gram,” Temperance corrected her with a brief smile his way. “William is a grown man. He doesn’t have to check in.” She eyed her best friend and then furrowed her brow. “But you do look a bit pale, Will. Are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m fine—better now that I’m here. ’Twas a long trip to Aberfeldy and back.”
“Och, I had forgotten you’d gone there to trade,” Temperance said. “Forgive me, Will.”
He smiled at her and held up his hands. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
She was grateful for William’s gracious heart and that he said nothing about a Christmas wedding.
Gram always told her tomorrow had its own worries. Tonight Temperance wanted to enjoy the feast she’d prepared all day and enjoy the people of Linavar. They drank and told tales and laughed until the late hours of the night.
When everyone followed the piper, Angus MacDavies, into the fields behind the house to sing in celebration of the Child’s birth and give thanks for a fruitful harvest, Temperance stayed behind in the house with William. It was time she told him the truth. She didn’t want to marry him, and her father would allow it only after his death in twenty years, hopefully longer.
None of them heard the sound of horses thundering down the glen.
Chapter Three
The ride down Càrn Gorm into the vale wasn’t long. A crisp chill in the air produced puffs of white from the horses’ noses as they descended the mountain. Other than that it was a clear night. As they rode, Cailean and the other Black Riders tied black kerchiefs around their faces and pulled up their hoods. To prevent what had happened today to Patrick from happening more often, they didn’t let anyone know who they were behind their masks. Hired mercenaries were not well liked. Who had recognized them? Why had Patrick been shot? He wasn’t even a damned Black Rider.
From here Cailean could see a procession of lights moving in the darkness. Where were the people of the hamlet going? His cousin Patrick was fighting for his life because of one of these Menzies and they were parading about the vale late at night.
Cailean was tired of waiting. He wanted recompense and was glad they were finally on their way to get it.
When they reached the bottom of the glen, he looked around. There was nothing to see but darkness and the small cluster of fires and lanterns to the west. He hadn’t been here before, having arrived at Lyon’s Ridge Castle a sennight after the harvest, but he believed the people were in the fields.
The Black Riders proceeded with more caution as they entered the hamlet, unseen, like a curse on the midnight gales.
The first thing to rake across Cailean’s ears was the laughter. It filled the air like shrill taunts about what he’d let go when he left home. He pushed thoughts of his kin away.
When the Menzies lifted their voices in song, he realized they were celebrating—Christmas, most likely. He surveyed them in the shadows, ignoring their joy and looking for weapons. One of them had tried to kill Patrick, and still might succeed.
His gaze flicked over the inhabitants, looking for any sign of aggression.
“Seth Menzie!” Duncan called out.
Duncan had told him about the leader of Linavar before they’d left. Menzie had a passion for defying the lord he’d sworn fealty to, and a daughter Duncan planned on taking as his wife one day.
Cailean didn’t care about one man’s defiance or about the future bride of a heartless overlord.
A few of the women gasped and cried when the deadly cloaked mercenaries came closer to the fires and into view. Cailean looked around at the fear in their faces. Good, they should be afraid.
“Duncan Murdoch,” the tall man called back, stepping forward, “welcome to—”
“I don’t need your welcome upon land owned by my father. And don’t speak my name.”
“Of course,” Menzie agreed.
So, Cailean thought, Menzie knew who Duncan was beneath his covering. If Cailean removed his mask, would the village leader also recognize him as one of the men who had ridden back to Lyon’s Ridge today? Did Seth Menzie know the identity of all the Black Riders? Instantly Cailean’s heart hardened toward him.
“I meant no disrespect,” Menzie continued, sounding repentant but not looking away or lowering his gaze. “What can I do for you? Is everything well with your father?”
“To begin,” Duncan sneered from atop his mount, “don’t bring up my father to me. If you tell him I was here I’ll come back—and I won’t be so lenient. Next you can tell me what you’re celebrating tonight.”
Cailean knew perfectly well what they were celebrating. The same thing his own kin were likely to begin celebrating any day now. So what? Murdoch didn’t enforce the law on Christmas. They’d come here to find out who’d shot Patrick and avenge him. He slid a warning glare at Duncan and vowed to himself that if he made this personal, instead of keeping it about Patrick, Cailean would take him to the lists and beat him senseless.
“Caesar’s Census!” An old woman with one patched eye blurted her confession. “As ye know perfectly well, Duncan Murdoch! The same days we’ve been celebrating fer years!”
“Silence, old woman!” Duncan shouted at her, then glared at Menzie again. “Why are you celebrating Caesar when my father is lord here?” he called out, proving to the small crowd watching what a fool he was.
“’Tis one of the events that preceded the birth of our Lord,” the leader stated, his feet firmly planted in the land he worked.
“You mean Christmas?”
When the leader nodded, Duncan trembled with fury. “Then you’re breaking the law, yet again. Year after year you defy the laws of the land, Menzie.”
“Who gives a damn aboot that, Murdoch?” Cailean kept his voice low but deadly so that only the men closest to him could hear.
Duncan ignored him.
“What do you want, Duncan?” Menzie called out.
“I see it in your eyes,” Duncan said, setting his merciless smile on the leader. “What you want to do to me is quite clear. You want to shoot me, just like you shot one of my men today. You’re a murdering—”
“I was in Kenmore,” Menzie cut him off, his voice seemingly calm but more raspy. He looked around the firelight for someone he evidently didn’t find.
“Did you use the mountain pass upon your return?” Duncan asked him. Cailean waited, breath held, for his reply.
“I did,” the leader said, lifting his chin like a proud stallion.
Duncan motioned for Cutty to dismount and take hold of the leader, then turned his victorious grin on Cailean. “Did I not tell you it was the Menzies?”
The Menzies. For years they had warred with the MacGregors. They hadn’t changed, always seeking trouble. Now they’d found it.
Cailean nodded at Cutty.
The assassin’s dagger glinted in the moonlight.
“No!” the old woman cried out, slapping uselessly at Cutty’s arm as more villagers began to scream. “Let go of my son!”
Cailean watched in horror. Revenge was one thing. Killing someone’s son before her eyes was another.
“Papa!” someone screamed, running toward them from the large manor house. “Don’t hurt him! Papa!”
It was the lass from the marketplace, the one Cailean had admired! His heart pum
ped loudly in his ears, his stomach roiled within, and he knew in that moment exactly what he’d become. The man about to die was her father.
“Please, don’t do this!” She looked straight at Cailean when she screamed. A man was with her, his face white as a cloud. His eyes on Menzie.
Cailean looked back at Cutty and called out, “Wait!”
He didn’t want this. Not this.
But it was too late. Cutty stepped behind the leader and swiped his blade across Menzie’s throat just as his daughter and her companion reached them.
It was so quick Cailean’s mind hadn’t finished taking it in when the leader began to fall. He landed at the feet of his small family.
The hamlet erupted in screams. The sound reverberated in Cailean’s head until he felt his heart begin to rumble from somewhere deep within. But it was the leader’s daughter’s soul-wrenching wail that he feared he’d never forget. For it rose up toward the heavens, then came down like an arrow straight into Cailean’s chest. Whatever shards were left of his heart were completely shattered. Time slowed as he watched her fall to her knees and drag her father into her arms, where he drew his last breath.
Cailean couldn’t breathe. He’d wanted to avenge his cousin. He’d been thirsty for blood. But seeing the lass sobbing with her father in her arms, the same way Sage and Alison had died in his, shook him to his core. He knew the pain that contorted her face and made her shriek from someplace so deep, even she seemed not to recognize the sound coming from her.
“No! No!” she cried. “Please, Papa, no!”
Cailean had wanted blood and he’d gotten it.
He felt ill.
Time sped up again and he moved to block Duncan’s path to the family. “We need to go. Now.”
“He was likely the one who shot your cousin,” Duncan reminded him coolly while the woman’s weeping filled the air.
Likely. They didn’t even know for certain. Cailean suspected that for Duncan, this had nothing to do with Patrick. “We’ll never know now, will we?”
“They know,” Duncan said with a snarl and a gleam in his eyes. He was hungry for more blood. He was hungry for the lass. Cailean knew it before he opened his mouth.
“She’ll confess if I take her.”
Cailean held up his palm. Duncan would no doubt destroy her, if Cailean hadn’t already. He’d tear away at whatever remained of her joyful heart until there was nothing left but misery. She would end up like everyone else at Lyon’s Ridge. Her glorious eyes would no longer… Was he mad? Was he about to let his heart rule him on the night he most needed his heart to remain detached?
“Let us leave here now.” He had to go. He had to get away from the screams, the wailing of a daughter who cradled her father’s limp body.
“We’ll leave when I say,” Duncan Murdoch snarled at him.
Cailean’s cool blue-gray stare made him shrink back.
“Move yer damned horse, Murdoch, or I’ll put ye on yer arse in front of all these people.”
Duncan blinked, and, knowing Cailean could do it, called to the men that they were leaving.
Cailean lingered in the shadows, watching the three women who had fallen over Menzie’s body. The rest of the villagers either wept or tried to help. Nobody could.
His gaze remained on the women… on the carefree lass from the market. He understood how she felt. This was her father, and the other one’s son, and likely the third’s husband. Cailean had wanted to avenge Patrick, but he hadn’t considered the cost of his decision.
He kept watch on Patrick that night and paced before his bed the entire time. He was unable to sleep. Guilt gnawed away at him, breathed life into the dark beast he’d let loose. “Patrick,” he said beside his unconscious cousin’s bed. “What have I done? I went to Linavar to kill, never suspectin’ that anything could be worse than m’ own loss. But I was wrong.”
Och, I was wrong. Inflicting that pain on someone else is worse. It’s hell.
And Cailean needed atonement.
He also needed to know that Seth Menzie hadn’t died for nothing. Had he been the one who’d shot Patrick? If he had then justice, no matter how cruel, or how much Cailean regretted it now, had been served. But if he hadn’t… Cailean needed to know.
After assurances that Patrick would live, Cailean traded his fur cloak for his plaid and changed his boots for the hide boots he’d arrived in. He set out early in the morning. He swore to his unconscious cousin that he would return in a few hours and that when Patrick was well enough to travel, they were leaving Glen Lyon. But there were things he had to see to first.
He reined in his horse and stood on the crest of Càrn Gorm. The mist was thick around his calves this morning and he could barely make out the row of lights moving toward a field in the distance. He realized it was a procession of mourners. Last night they had celebrated and now they were on their way to bury Seth Menzie.
What if Menzie was the wrong man? So what if he’d recognized Duncan in his mask? He’d known the lord’s son well enough, according to Duncan. What atonement did Cailean expect they’d give him? They’d likely try to kill him. But he’d been covered. No one had seen his face. Logic told him to return to the castle and sit with Patrick. But he argued with himself that he’d be gone only a few hours.
And something had drawn him back here. A need to find the truth… and more than that, a need to make things right. But how could he? He put his boots to his horse’s flanks anyway and raced down the steep braes. He dismounted when he reached the hamlet and tied his horse to a tree. His heart pounded while he proceeded on foot.
It wasn’t too late to turn back. He didn’t want to have a part in any more sorrow. He didn’t want to see any of the villagers, or speak to them. What if she saw him? What could he say to her? He had no reason to be here, but he remained and stayed out of sight when he saw her arrive with her family. He was a fool to stay when they began giving their dead loved one tribute. Och, what had he become that he could cause a family, nae, an entire village so much pain? He was a monster, too dark for logic.
Temperance clutched TamLin to her chest and watched William and some of the other villagers lower her father’s box into the ground.
She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. She had nothing left.
The morning was overcast and the dirt was hard from the early frost. It had taken four hours to dig a big-enough hole. It was as if the ground didn’t want her father. Temperance didn’t want to let him go. She wanted to break open that hated box and take him back from death’s grip. She wanted to curse William for being so damned determined to conquer the frozen ground, and oh… she cursed the Black Riders.
William’s heart is lost to you. What do you intend to do about it, Tem? Her father stood before her, tall and strong, his dark hair blown by the wind of a brisk October day not too long ago. His smile was wide and handsome, and happy. He was always happy and he’d taught her to be the same. That was over now.
Forgive me, Tem. His last words, spoken on a strangled whisper before his life left him. Forgive him for what? For dying? Oh, but it wasn’t his fault! Duncan Murdoch and his cohort were responsible.
How would she go on when it felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her body?
She lifted her gaze to her childhood friend now. His shoulders heaved from exhaustion but his face showed only sorrow. William loved her father. He understood her pain and the harshness of the truth that, like her, he hadn’t been there to stop it.
Twenty years had gone by in a single night. She’d have to marry William now. She and Gram needed the protection of a man. Who better than the one her father had trained as his successor should anything ever happen to him? Something had happened. Her father, her sweet, wonderful father, was dead—and she’d watched it happen. She’d seen that Black Rider nod his approval before his fiendish friend cut her father’s throat right in front of her poor gram and Anne Gilbert. She’d never get her father’s blood out of her cloak. She’d never forget his last breat
h, his last words, while he looked up at her. She didn’t want to forget. She began to cry again, but her tears were blown away by the wind. She would never hear his voice again, or see him bent to the soil in their fields. She’d never see his smile again, cast over all who greeted him, and soft and indulgent on her.
Temperance listened while Gram said something pretty about her son. There were many things to choose from. Gram spoke about his fairness and thoughtfulness and many of the villagers agreed while they wiped their eyes. Temperance bit her lip and battled herself to keep from crying with them when Gram recounted his steadfast loyalty and devotion, and spoke of how she was going to miss him.
It was Temperance’s turn to speak. What was she to say? There was more than just sorrow’s weight upon her. There was anger. There was guilt for not having been there to stop Duncan from killing her father.
There would be no more laughter, no more jesting with him and Gram and the others while they worked the land. No more late-night talks with him about politics and life. They had taken it all from her.
She lowered her gaze to the box, now set in place. It took her a moment to gather her strength to speak without a sob. But finally she did. “I’m going to kill them, Papa. I’m going to kill them all.”
She sniffed and started to turn to Gram so she could leave. She’d had enough. She couldn’t bear another instant.
William’s speaking his turn stopped her.
“I vow not to let Temperance fulfill her most recent promise to you, my friend.”
What? She turned on him. She didn’t care if William was her best friend and her betrothed. Who in damnation did he think he was to promise her father that he’d make her break her oath?
“William.”
He knew her well enough to know the chill in her voice, the spark of challenge in her eyes. It didn’t matter if Gram gave her a hard tug and pulled her away. She didn’t need to say anything more. William knew she was furious. She’d finish this later. It was time to go. There was much to be done in preparation for the celebration tonight. It was customary to celebrate the life of anyone they buried in Linavar. Tonight they would celebrate Seth Menzie. After that they wouldn’t celebrate anything else until Christmas and Hogmanay.